


Instant Drabbling

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2005-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Members got together on an instant messaging service, and <i>drabbled</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March 17, 2005: Happy New Year!

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

What a challenge! JunoMagic, araneltook, Meril, Gwynnyd, Arandil, Elvenesse, Narwen Almiriel, and Eärengil got together via instant messaging and drabbled. This event was in celebration of March 25th: the day the One Ring was destroyed. Each drabble took from 15-25 minutes, the general rule being that it couldn't be more than half an hour.

Four words were selected, either by dictionary or by random word generator online. The rule was that those words had to be used (verb conjugation was permitted).

Credits:  
Juno and Aranel for coming up with the idea.  
Meril for a little bit of publicity.  
Everyone who participated for all the fun!

* * *

  
bewailed  
diviner  
muddles  
struts

**untitled** – by Eärengil

The woman thought of herself as the most bewailed inhabitant of Minas Tirith, Gondor. Did everyone talk about her, or was that her imagination? Her thoughts had at best been muddled since her husband’s death. He’d been a soldier, so death was part of it. You didn’t need a diviner to know that he would probably die fighting.

So when a woman came to town, claiming to have the power of foresight – she called herself a diviner – the woman said to herself “You are going to go out there and strut over to this woman, so it will be settled.”

**untitled** – by Arandil

“What ill deeds have you foreseen? Speak, seer, or get thee from my home. ”

The diviner stood calmly before the smith master. “Though you may not desire to muddle in her affairs, you must stay your daughter from her current path.”

“If you speak of her attention to the son of the king, there is naught I can do. While I may not care for how he struts through the city, she is of the age to make her own decisions.”

“His arrogance you speak of shall be much bewailed, and he shall be named kinslayer before the end.”

**First Love** – by Juno

You did not need to be a diviner to realize what was up with young Boromir of Gondor. You only had to see him strut along the streets of Minas Tirith this spring to know just what had happened to the Steward's son.

A dreamy expression on his face, his mind in a muddle, with no correct answer for any question his tutors might ask:

Boromir son of Denethor was nineteen years old.  
And he was in love!

Alas, it was not to be.

He died a bachelor, bewailed, bemoaned, beloved by all of Gondor, but not by a wife.

**The Return of the Banners** – by Meril

The caravan’s frayed remnants slunk into Umbar like a wounded dog, trailing dust and blood and shame. They had marched out of the city chanting war-songs in myriad tongues. Their swaggers and struts had been almost comical to watch.

_The holy diviner proclaimed our victory,_ she thought, listening as young women bewailed husbands who would not return. But she would not wail: she had given two husbands to the harsh sands before coming to live in the city, aside from three children.

Ragged scarlet banners muddled before her old eyes, twisting and warping until all she could see was blood.

**Defeat** – by Aranel Took

He glared at his Captain, anger threatening to muddle his weary mind and make him do something he would later regret. The Captain struts like a rooster at the head of their regiment, seemingly oblivious to the throng of families lining the street, the pitiful cries of women and children filling the air as they bewailed their dead.

For the diviners had been wrong. There had been no promised victory. No glorious return to their city as heroes. Instead, only a battered few had made the journey home, in defeat and shame. They had underestimated the Men of the West.

**Muddling Through** – by Gwynnyd

“I feel all muddled up, Mr. Frodo,” Sam admitted, glumly contemplating the floor of the boat. “The Lady said she was no diviner of the future, but it was so real. Trees falling. That Ted Sandyman, fingers under his braces, strutting ‘round like he owned the Shire. Why, it’s almost more than I can bear to think on. I do feel this boat is taking me the wrong way.”

“You don’t have to stay with us.” The sadness in Frodo’s eyes near broke Sam’s heart.

“No, I promised myself I’d stay the whole way. I’ll not bewail my fate now.”

**untitled** – by Narwen Almiriel

In a small, almost forgotten room near the library of Imladris, a small figure strutted about in what appeared to be a bedsheet. It was actually a dress made to fit a grown elf. So naturally poor Arwen found herself tripping in it. But none of the others made her look like a diviner, like her grandmother…In a corner of the room there lay more dresses all muddled up. Arwen did not know what to do. She bewailed the loss of her two favourite dolls in the hands of her brothers. Now who would take their place at her tea table?

* * *

  
injury  
respect  
put  
praise

**untitled** – by Arandil

“He has sustained minor injury, my lord, but he is well.” The messenger watched nervously as the king put down his carven staff.

“Praise the Valar.” he whispered, almost to himself, before turning to the envoy. “And how have you news of my son?”

“A missive was received today, sire, from the Lord and Lady…” Before he could finish, the king was on his feet, striding towards the open door.

“I shall travel there to see him with my own eyes.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the messenger held out a shaking hand. “They ask that you remain here.”

**Respect** – by Aranel Took

He put his arm up on the table, letting the healer poke and prod his injury. “You’ll need stiches,” she said. “And you’re lucky you didn’t break it.”

He just shrugged. He’d gotten used to the healers scolding him over his injuries. They’d even gone to Eomer King about it. “He’s pushing himself too hard,” they’d complained. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

But how could they understand? That any bit of praise was seen as coddling or favoritism because of who he was. He had to push himself. To prove himself and earn the respect of his fellow Riders.

**Learning at Play** – by Eärengil

Elrond had tried to look at both sides of the situation. On the one hand, Estel deserved to be praised for trying to increase his skills. And he had clearly wanted the respect of his older brothers. But they should have known that to encourage a youngling like this would only lead to injury. It had undoubtedly been a difficult decision to make. And in the end, they had realized that Estel was going to try anyways, so they might as well safeguard him. So they had put the clues were they could be seen, that he might learn more.

**Remembered Wisdom** – by Gwynnyd

“Do not underestimate your enemy. He will not behave stupidly just because you wish him to. Respect yourself. Respect him and you will live to see victory in the end.”

Fine words. Easy to hear on the cool, shaded terrace where the white stones of Minas Tirith reflect the sun into kindly warmth. Harder to put into practice when the enemy is lurking, somewhere, and injury and death are naught but a slip away. Only the foolish wait for hidden foes, and then betray themselves.

Faramir scans the terrain and slowly moves his troops into position, silently praising the wisdom of his father.

**A tribute to Werecat's "Brown Spirit"** – by JunoMagic

"Put aside that old injury. It is time to let go!" The white wizard advised. He was on his way to the Grey Havens and had come to bid a friend farewell.

The younger man stroked a black cat that was curled up on his lap.

"A fool, he called me," he said in a low voice. His eyes were gentle and brown, the same colour as his robes. A sparrow on his shoulder nibbled at his earlobe.

"But I have only praise for you, and respect," said Gandalf. "Walk the vast forests of Arda, and be happy, my friend."

**untitled** – by Narwen Almiriel

They all praised her.

People came into the Houses of Healing every day to ask after her. They gave her flowers, wished her a safe recovery.

But not him. She had not seen him since that day. He had healed her wounds, her injuries, but not her heart. She did not care what anyone else said. She did not want fame. All she wanted was for him to respect her. To love her. She would ask him why he did not, but she could not put aside her pride. She was the White Lady. Surely she was worthy of him?

**Biased Bedtime Stories** – by Meril

“ _And the great King Elrond said, ‘You have done me great injury, spider-spawn, and now I must put you in your place.’_ ”

“Where were we when this happened? You would never—”

“Hush up, Arwen! It’s my turn! _So the great King sent his praised Captains, Elrohir the Orc-Slayer and Elladan the Goblin-Crusher, forth from his realm to give the ugly Prince of Mirkwood his doom. On reaching Moria, Captain Elrohir said, ‘How fitting: a spider fed to the dwarves.’ And—_ ”

“Elrohir! Your sister is hearing this!”

“Sorry, Nana. How about Orcs?”

Celebrían groaned. _Will they ever respect Mirkwood?_

* * *

  
flare  
shrug  
figment  
portion

**Rampant Desire** – by Elvenesse

Pippin looked at Aragorn hopefully, “have you finished with your portion of the stew?”

Aragorn carefully moved his bowl behind him and shrugged innocently, “stew, what stew? Are you sure it is not just a figment of your imagination?”

The rest of the fellowship watched in amusement as Merry carefully retrieved Aragorn’s bowl whilst Pippin kept him occupied.

Merry sat back down next to Pippin, saying, “Here Pip, would you like some of my meal?”

Aragorn lunged for his bowl and knocked it into the fire, which flared up and swallowed the food, amidst gales of laughter from the fellowship.

**Fateful Dreams** – by JunoMagic

"It's nothing but a figment of imagination!" But cold fear gripped Denethor's heart.

Boromir shrugged.

"Father, you know that fantasies are not my domain! But this dream, it flares like fire in my heart!" The warrior sighed. His father would not like to hear this. "And Faramir shares this portion of the dream!"

He would not say that Faramir had the worst of it. Dreams that woke him, screaming.

"We have to go to Imladris and find out the meaning of it all, no matter what the cost! I know this is fateful!"

And Denethor knew that it was, too.

**Do Figments Have Eyes?** – by Gwynnyd

“It’s a figment of your imagination.” Merry shrugged off Pippin’s fears casually as he carefully divided the food in the pan into equal portions. Moria’s dark pressed down, but the small fire was cheerful.

Pippin was not so lightly dismissed. “I saw them, Merry, as clearly as I see you. Eyes in a face, just as the fire flared up. I was looking out into the tunnel and I saw them. Then I heard footsteps, even though we were all here and resting.”

“So, go tell Strider or Gandalf. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Bother Gandalf again? No!”

**Shadowfax** – by Aranel Took

He settled in to the little hollow, pulling his cloak around him to ward off the chill. This portion of the field was quiet tonight, not even the crickets making noise. Only the rustle of grass in the wind. He would be in trouble if his escapade was discovered. But it would be worth it.

He didn’t have long to wait. Like a figment of a dream, a ghostly white shape appeared. A shrug of shoulders, the toss of a head, the flare of nostrils--Éomer gaped in awe as the great _mearas_ capered like a colt under the moonlight.

**Everything’s Wrong** – by Meril

Sam struck the flint and tinder again, producing a tiny flare which promptly died in the wind. Frowning, he tried four successive times, ultimately failing to light the tiny portion of wood.

Nothing had gone right that day. Boromir looked tense enough to shatter, Aragorn was withdrawn; Legolas and Gimli were arguing (again); Merry and Pippin were bickering; Frodo was brooding…

And _he_ couldn’t light the FIRE!

_SNAP!_

Instantly suspicious, he peered into the gathering gloom. He fancied he saw a creeping figure, skulking through the shadows near the boats. Sam shrugged.

_A figment of your imagination, Samwise. Nothing more._

**Nerdanel and Fëanor: The True E!Hollywood Story** – by Arandil  
[In response to Meril’s snickering request: “Have Nerdanel call Fëanor a shallowbrain.”]

He walked towards her and her passion flared within her. He must feel a portion of what she felt …he was standing so close she could feel the heat from his body. There was one way to know.

“What do you desire, Curufinwë?” She waited breathlessly for his answer.

Grasping her hand and fueling her longing, he unexpectedly shrugged. “You are the only one whose skill comes close to mine. I desire your company.”

“Comes _close_ , you _shallowbrain_?” His want had been a figment of her imagination. Rejection turned her ardor to anger. “Far surpasses, is closer to the truth.”

* * *

  
gathering  
skirt  
bitters  
mother  
Special challenge: Include alcohol (for St. Patrick's Day), and New Year (for March 25th: the day the Ring was destroyed).

**The 25th of March** – by Meril  
[Features characters borrowed from Aeneid.]

During the gathering at their chosen tavern, Boromir observed his men.

The men joked that old Amlaith (who now sipped at a brew silently) wouldn’t smile for his mother. Red-haired Ragnor sat with a barmaid beside him, whispering in her ear and fingering her skirt.

But there were empty spaces. Heldar, who wouldn’t see his rosy-cheeked wife again. Baran, who had barely sprouted a beard.

_The best comes with the bitters, or so they say._ Taking a long look at the crowded, laughing, living tavern, Boromir drained his ale.

_To a new year. Remember the dead, but still keep living._

**untitled** – by Elvenesse

Éowyn gathered her skirts around her knees and climbed onto the bench to sit next to Faramir, who was swaying slightly. She laughed as she took a mouthful of his drink, savouring the bitter taste. “You’re not used to matching drinks with the Rohirrim, are you my love. I am glad we decided to come here to celebrate New Year, even if you can’t hold your drink.”

Faramir grinned sloppily at her; then stood on the table, “Come,” he shouted, “let us toast those who are no longer with us. Mothers, fathers, brothers, friends!” The hall resounded with drunken cheers.

**untitled** – by Aranel Took

Estella wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips. Freddy always put too much bitters in his beer. She’d try a different beer, maybe some of Gaffer Gamgee’s brew.

She weaved her way through the gathering celebrating the New Year, heading towards the ale casks to get a new mug. She didn’t make it. She was stopped by small hands tugging at her skirt. She looked down. Her sons and Fari were looking up at her, looking a bit guilty about something.

“What did you three do now?” she sighed, setting aside her mug. Being a mother took priority over beer.

**Here’s to All Mothers!** – by JunoMagic

_Smack!_

His mother slapped him right in the face. Bergil cringed.

"What do you think you were doing? Lifting skirts and gathering ill-repute? Sampling the bitters of every inn in Minas Tirith?" She fumed, her face red, her hand still lifted threateningly.

His manly pride withering, Bergil ducked down further, rubbing his inflamed cheek.

"But Mom! It's New Year's Eve! Everyone is celebrating!"

"Everyone! I'll give you everyone! You are all but fourteen!" His mother shouted.

There was no reasoning with his mother. So, feeling slightly queasy from too many drinks, the Citadel's proudest squire slunk off to his bed.

**Revelry** – by Gwynnyd

Shouts, laughs, and horns’ blats drifted upwards on the light evening breeze with the scent of beer and frying sweets. The gathering shadows concealed no fear. From his high place, Aragorn saw mothers shooing children indoors away from the whirling skirts of dancers filling the streets. Nine times he had watched his people celebrate more raucously than was deemed seemly at the formal New Year’s court. He longed to roam the streets, swilling bitter beer on every level and learning new tales of that day of joy.

Arwen took pity on him at last. “Go. I will make your excuses.”

* * *

  
covered  
out  
war

**Sleep, My Son, Sleep** – by JunoMagic

_A blanket for her son. To keep him covered and sheltered, all year long._

Handsome, he had been, his mail so bright, his eyes so proud, as she had thrown down roses of Imloth in front of the hooves of his horse.

Strong, he had been, with his dagger shining, his spear glinting and his grandfather’s sword gleaming.

Hope, he had given them, on that dark day, riding to war, out of the gates of Minas Tirith to face all their foes.

_A blanket of earth for her son. To keep him covered and sheltered, sleeping in peace forever more._

**Foreplay** – by Aranel Took

Goldi yawned and made her way to her guest room at the Great Smials. Rose and Daisy had gone to bed a while ago, but Goldi had stayed up far too late listening to Uncle Merry and Uncle Pippin tell stories.

She opened the door quietly, trying not to wake her sisters. She set the candle on the bedside table and turned back the covers.

She covered her mouth with her hand at the sight of the bullfrog in her bed, gaping up at her with huge eyes. “Faramir!” she muttered. She scowled and picked up the frog. This means war!

**Unnumbered Tears** – by Elvenesse

This was supposed to be the war to end all wars. I broke the leaguer of Gondolin to come to my brother’s aid. Yet to no avail.

We marched out of the hidden city to end Morgoth’s reign. Our assault was broken by those who were oath-sworn.

On the forth day began the Battle of Unnumbered Tears: I watched my brother fall to the whips of fire. I watched as swarms of orcs covered his body, and I could not reach him.

Mortal treachery lost us the battle. Yet through the friendship and sacrifice of Húrin, were my people saved.


	2. March 24, 2005: Impromptu Birthday Drabbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Members got together on an instant messaging service, and _drabbled_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half was instant drabbled. The second half was written later, to make it a double for belatedness.]

Another session of instant drabbling! This one was completely impromptu, and only happened because a bunch of us happened to be online at the same time: JunoMagic, araneltook, Narwen Almiriel, Earengil, Arandil, and Meril for most of the time; and Isil Elensar and Ithiliel Silverquill joined in briefly as well.

We wrote birthday drabbles this time, which meant that along with the usual four random words, we had to make the drabble fit the person's birthday request. So the drabbles are organized by birthday request. Most of them were for March birthdays, but we did one April birthday as well.

Drabbles are in order of birthday request.

Khazar-Khum: For drabbles--let's see the bad guys in action, shall we?

**Ash Nazg** \- Arandil

I am beautiful.

I need no force. Those Firstborn star-worshippers see my fair façade  
and welcome my counsel; my lore; my knowledge. I gift to them secrets that only a Maia of Aulë would know and they drink up my teaching with  
unquenchable thirst. "Rings of Power," they call their creation. An accurate description; but the power will be all mine.

I am cunning.

Little do they know of my true nature. I will dominate them as no one  
else has done before. Even my Master was not capable of this kind of  
supremacy.

_Ash nazg_... Know me. Fear me.

* * *

  
Agape4Gondor: Is there a chance I might find a Boromir drabble here for me?

[The words were pristine, maternal, altered, and completed.]

**Memory’s Sake** \- Meril (double drabble)  
[Author's Note: The first half was instant drabbled. The second half was written later, to make it a double for belatedness.]

A light touch along the dusty surface, raising the scent of old roses and musty perfumes.

Once, this dresser was pristine and free of dust. Finduilas had arranged his collection of seashells _here_ with such maternal pride that he thought his face would crack from smiling. She had spent hours with him, setting out arrangement after altered arrangement on the dark surface, until they finally completed it. “I am proud of you,” she said.

_The dead are gone, and they will ne’er return._ Yet still, for memory’s sake, he took the small white handkerchief from the drawer, and pocketed it.

Later that night, sleepless and studying the delicate embroidery, he slipped out of bed and began to roam the halls. His wandering feet led him all over the Citadel, until he finally ended up before his father’s study, seeing a flickering light from the door, which stood ajar.

His father stood by the window, staring out at the skies. His gaze was absent, remote. When he glanced back to see his son waiting by the door, he beckoned, and Boromir walked over.

Father and son stood in silence, watching the night pass by, and both thought of the same person.

**Comfort** \- Ithiliel Silverquill (drabble and a half)

It has been four years, thought Boromir, fingering the square of cloth. It was a small white handkerchief, made for a fine lady. Now it was his.

Finduilas had been the first one to see him in the entryway after the fistfight. She had gasped, then pulled out her handkerchief to dab at the blood on his nose, ignoring his proud refusal. Its pristine whiteness had been permanently altered by the crimson stain, but Finduilas had not cared. Her maternal instincts were stronger than his protests or common sense.

Her task completed, she had laid the handkerchief in his hand, then kissed his forehead. “Be careful, Boromir,” she had said.

It has been four years since she died.

Boromir refolded the stained handkerchief, eyes stinging, and tucked it into the drawer in his desk. He shut the drawer violently.

It would not do to let his family see him cry.

[NOTE: Ithiliel and Meril would like you to know that they didn't communicate on this one: they both randomly came up with the _same type of situation_. Weird, huh?]

**Warrior** \- Arandil

The pristine morning was too beautiful to mar with battle, but the whims of the fates can not be altered. Our journey almost completed, it was a pity it had to end this way.

One.

I refused to feel the pain spreading. The Halflings must be protected.

Two.

I was a warrior. I _am_ a warrior.

Three.

I felt the earth beneath knees I hadn’t realized I fell on. It was only  
a matter of time before arrow number four hit. The haze began to grow and I felt death’s maternal embrace as the last of my consciousness slipped away.

* * *

  
Narwen Almiriel: Let’s see…Could I have a drabble about either a). Celeborn and Galadriel being reunited in Aman, or b). Finwë and either one of his wives (or both, even…) or c). Melian and Elwë. Please? Pretty please?

**Spirit of Fire** \- Arandil

"I feel him stir within me."

Finwë gazed fondly at his wife as he placed his hand on her protruding  
stomach. "Is he always this active?" he asked with a smile.

Miriel nodded and leaned in to rest her head on her husband’s shoulder. "I shall call him ‘Feanáro.’ "

"Spirit of fire?" Finwë asked, pulling away from his wife and raising an eyebrow. "What do you foresee for him?"

Miriel held his gaze for a moment before answering. "Great shall be his  
deeds."

Finwë beamed proudly and hugged her to him, not noticing the briefest  
shadow pass across her face.

* * *

  
Vistula the Dunedain: I would LOVE drabbles that have YOUR favorite character somehow interacting with MY favorite character. For those few of you who haven't already guessed who THAT may be, the answer is, of course, Sam. Anytime, any place, any situation is great! (And I don't mind slash either, if you are so inclined.)

**Of Elves and Horses** \- Arandil

"He is quite fond of you. Did you know?"

Samwise jumped when he heard the sound of the crystal clear voice  
speaking behind him. It was most unnatural the way the elf could appear behind you without your knowledge.

"Begging your pardon, Mister Legolas, but I can’t say as if I  
understand."

"Bill," the elf said with laughter in his eyes. He rubbed the horse’s  
nose, eliciting a happy sounding whinny from the animal. "He has never had a kinder master."

Sam was glad for the dark. It would not do to blush in front of one of the Firstborn.

Meril: I'm incredibly indecisive. I want (a) a happy moment between Feanor and Nerdanel, or (b) anything Houses of Healing, or (c) Galadriel and Celeborn anywhere. If you incorporate all of those (definitely not required!), I'll drop dead from shock.

**Truth** \- Arandil (double drabble)

"Is there truth in the whisperings I hear? They say you murdered your  
mother."

A powerful fury flashed through his eyes and Nerdanel saw his jaw  
clench even tighter. For a moment she feared to breathe until she saw the anger replaced by a deep sorrow. He held her gaze but his response was barely audible.

"Do you believe them to be true?"

Nerdanel’s heart filled with compassion, but it was not enough to overcome her disquiet. How to answer such a question of someone she barely knew? She focused her eyes on a point in the distance so she no longer had to bear the intensity of his gaze. It was wreaking havoc on her nerves, even if there was something about it that thrilled her.

  
  
"People who are capable of kin slaying are said to have no _fea_ ," she mused to herself. Turning her attention back to him, she continued. "But yours burns stronger than most." She watched his face, intent on catching any reaction to what she had said. His eyes no longer gave away what he was feeling as he waited silently to hear her judgment.  
  
"No, Curufinwe. I do not believe any of the whispers."  
  
Forodwaith: I'd love drabbles about Arwen (a criminally underwritten character IMO), especially if they focus on a part of her life other than her relationship with Aragorn. If you're an Arwen-hater, write me a drabble about Sam and his garden and I'll be just as happy.  
  
[The words were clothing, exotic, mysterious, and shipwreck.]  
  
 **Replacements** \- Meril  
  
Queen Arwen has dressed in the manner of our kingdom, abandoning elven styles in favor of our mortal variations. Rich velvets exchanged for flowing silks, embroidery for simple lines.   
  
_She has replaced her clothing as well as her life,_ I muse.   
  
My father said the elven-folk feel sorrows and joys more intensely than we do. We feel a pang at the loss of a rowboat, he said, while the elves feel a shipwreck’s devastation.   
  
I feel sudden warmth for this exotic queen, who traded Valar’s grace for unbreakable love.   
  
“I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, my lady. Welcome to Gondor.”  
  
 **A Welcome Visitor** \- Arandil   
  
The tall stranger approached the innermost circle of the city. His   
clothing was exotic and not recognizable to the people of Minas Tirith. He wore a cloak about his shoulders, its hood pulled up over his head, increasing the mysterious aura surrounding him. Unexpected to those that watched, the Queen ran towards him and embraced him.

  
  
"I wondered when you would come." She said as he released her. "I heard of the shipwreck and feared the worst."  
  
The man threw down his hood exposing raven hair and bright gray eyes, intense as the night’s first star. "Worry not, _muinthel nín_."  
  


* * *

  
Nasira: I'm not picky about my drabbles. Whatever anyone comes up with will be just fine.

[Had to use the number 23, and four of the following: books, finite, play, impartial, and knots. Arandil said that bonus points go to anyone who includes Feanor! ;)]

**Mastery** \- Meril (half drabble)

_And twenty-three and twenty-four..._

Unraveling the crystal’s riddle has yielded dozens of failed attempts. Success is finite, and numerous scars now play across his hands: the flames are impartial and implacable masters. Knots of ruined gems mock him, and chant his failures for the world to hear.

Brilliant light…

_Success._

**Twenty Three** \- Arandil

My books mock me.

For all their number, their information is finite. They speak of how  
wars of old played out, but not how to quell the knots of tension mounting now in the world. I turn to them for answers and they give me none.

Twenty three days have past since I have last seen my eldest son, my  
pride, my heir. Fell have my thoughts become of late. I perhaps am not  
impartial, but I would he have stayed here where he is needed rather than journey off to consort with elves about the meaning of mythical dreams.

* * *

  
Juno requested Elrond smut drabbles, which will not be posted here to keep the rating of this story at General.


	3. March 27, 2005: Impromptu Instant Drabbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Members got together on an instant messaging service, and _drabbled_.

surrender, hammer, gleam, priority

**Gatherers** \- Meril

Everything reminds him of her. The half-finished sculpture, her drawings on the wall, a hammer sitting atop the gleaming pile of copper: everything she left behind, gathering both dust and his hatred.

Bitterness rises in his throat. _Let her be damned, and let her "priorities" rot. I will not surrender._

* * *

  
fear, pain, death, sword

**Leave It Unspoken** \- Meril

"It was madness…"

Her brother’s voice broke the silence, and she flinched. It _had_ been madness: nothing but pain, blood, her blade against her people, and the overwhelming fear that

_this could be the end, oh Eru, why?_  
Look at the blood,  
the bodies  
Listen to the screams.

Mother’s people, her kin,  
my kin,  
our kin.

Why?

Oh, Eru! Save us!  
I  
didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t  
know  
that it would be like this.

He’s bleeding  
red blood  
flowing-dripping-pouring  
onto the white-white sand..

She’s dying  
choking-gasping-rasping  
last-last-very-last  
breath

Save me…

She shivered. "Leave it, Finrod. Do not talk about it."

* * *


	4. March 25, 2005: Impromptu Instant Drabbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Members got together on an instant messaging service, and _drabbled_.

dash, hutch, balm, grass, nuisance

**Survival Skills** \- Meril

"Ow!"

After applying a copious dash of balm to my ankle, I start towards the cluster of hutches on the grassy hillside. "Another new nuzgûl, how do they expect me to survive?" I grumble. "Damned nuisances! I already have stories: Celebrimbor’s bugging me about _Renewal_ , Fëanor will explode if I don’t write more on _Capture the Fire_ , and Nerdanel won’t talk to me! What gives?!

"And now another #%&*ing drabble! Honestly, how can I use these ridiculous words to talk about Fëanor?!"

I stop, eyeing a doe-eyed specimen that has just popped out of thin air.

"Oh, no you don’t."

**The Big Black Thing** \- JunoMagic

I made a dash for it. Two furry things were already hanging at my ankles.

"Quickly, Allie!" I yelled for my friend.

With a lunge Allie got hold of the beast that was hiding in the grass preparing for attack.

"Got it," she smiled triumphantly. "Now back in the hutch with it and we can detach these little buggers!" She eyed her own furry attachments.

I exhaled in a sigh of relief. "I think I have some of the athelas balm left… we should be alright…"

It was then that the shadow of the Big Black Thing fell on us.

* * *

  
notice, square, sentence, ritual

**Turning** \- Meril (missed "ritual")

_No more needless deaths,_ I had vowed. _Not while I live. Blades kill girls as easily as warriors, and it hurts none the less._ Fortune’s circle (and father’s favor) smiled, and my shieldmaidens became forces to notice and take pride in.

Now the circle turns to a hard winter bringing death and battle. I look around the square, half ashamed. Cwen and Geliefan are beside me, with their steadfast, unspoken loyalty.

_Your fault,_ my people’s silence accuses. _Our sentence of exile to the Deep is because of you._

_She is innocent,_ the silence of my shield-sisters retorts. _She is innocent._


End file.
